


In Whose Arms You're Gonna Be

by Crawford-Kinney (melchiorstiefel)



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Assault, Canon Gay Relationship, Coma, Gay Bashing, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Violence, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melchiorstiefel/pseuds/Crawford-Kinney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian has never been one for sentimentality. A day is a day, like any other.</p><p>But 18 May is always going to be different, no matter how much he argues otherwise.</p><p>After the first year, people quickly learned to leave Brian and Justin alone for that one day. No matter what else was going on in the world.</p><p>A snapshot of how Brian, Justin, Daphne, Debbie and Jennifer commemorate the day over time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Whose Arms You're Gonna Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first BriTin fic, so please bare with me. 
> 
> I'm going to post the original "headcanon" ramble post first, and then try and develop each section of it. 
> 
> Not certain if I will do it year-by-year, character-by-character, or some hybrid of the two.
> 
> Also, if anyone can come up with a good pseud for my QAF posts, with the initials NTOMK, please let me know.

**NOTE: This is unedited, and a rough outline/gist of the story to follow. This was written-in-place on Tumblr and posted immediately. Details subject to change.**

Brian and Justin stay away from each other on the anniversary of the Prom, and after the first year, everyone learned to leave them alone that day.

Brian plays Save the Last Dance for Me on endless repeat, dancing around the living room in a trance-like fantasy, before binging on fatty foods that he’ll regret in the morning. It’s the only day he wears the scarf anymore. At midnight, he plants a kiss against the silk, and then packs it away in its box again, tying a bow over the top, and stowing it behind his fitted shirts. If anyone were to ask if he cries, he’d deny it. But Justin never asks.

Justin needs to get away from everyone. He still can’t remember the night properly. Hazy memories here and there. Sometimes, he’ll go down to the hall where they held the prom, just to try to jog something. And, every few years, he ventures back to that carpark, grasping at anything he can get. More than a couple of times, he’ll freak out, and break his hand punching the wall. The first few years, he takes a sketchpad with him, tries to channel the scenes through his gimp hand. When he realises that nothing changes year-on-year, and that he’s simply getting more frustrated every time, he breaks through an entire pack of pencils, and rips the pad to pieces, letting it rain onto the street below.

But, at 1am, Justin always returns to Brian’s loft. Whether he’s living there or not. It’s an unspoken agreement. The rest of the night is theirs. Brian fucks him. Hard. As if the headboard will return his memory if hit enough. And when that doesn’t work, they spoon for the rest of the night. Inevitably, Brian sobs softly into Justin’s hair. Justin muffles his cries against Brian’s shoulder. The first couple of years, Brian nurses large bruises the next day, where Justin’s frustration is too much to take, where Justin’s fist made sharp contact with his arm.

But they cope, and carry on.

That single day is all they allow themselves to have.


End file.
